Faking Love

Chapter Twenty-Eight: those summer nights

"That's what you want," Daisy realised. Not a question. It was so glaringly obvious that she wanted to slap herself for not seeing it.

She'd told Hunt that she didn't do relationships. She didn't have boyfriends, didn't do love. Of course she was his dream. What man wouldn't want that?

Air rushed out of her, leaving her empty in its wake.

Casual.

Tears pricked her eyes. That lovely fluttering tension still rippling through her turned bruising, and she felt a sudden need to scrub herself clean from the inside out.

Hunt tilted his head, frowning. "No."

The word didn't make it to Daisy's brain. She couldn't reconcile it with what he'd just said. "No?"

"No," he repeated. "That's not what I want."

"So ..." She could only stare, could barely breathe through her confusion. "So what do you want? What ..." She blinked furiously, her throat clogged with tears. "What do you want, Hunt?"

Hunt sighed. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

She stared, unmoving.

He groaned into his palm. "You're going to make me say it."

Well, that wasn't good. Daisy shimmied onto her elbows. Her vision was blurry, her guard was down, and she was going to break. But she had to know. If he didn't want casual, what did he want? What on earth could he—

Hunt tore his hand from over his face. "You."

The world fell away.

"I want you." Hunt blushed. Blushed. "God, Daisy, isn't it obvious? I've wanted you since I overheard you going toe-to-toe with the concierge during check-in. I wanted you when you were juggling those suitcases, and when you beamed them a death promise when they exploded on the floor. And then I laughed, because it was adorable, and you glared at me, and I wanted you even more. I wanted you when you scowled at me, when you threatened to beat me with a whisk, when you called me a prick and when you looked at me like I was worth something. The first time you smiled at me, I thought I'd die. When you danced for me, I think a part of me did. It was too much, Daisy. Too much, and not nearly enough."

His chest worked on an inhale, deep and unsteady. His finger fell to her cheek, her lips, like he needed to touch all of her at once. A complete one-eighty. He was rambling, because she was silent. She couldn't talk.

Definitely not without crying.

"I want to kiss you," Hunt murmured, tearing his hand from the bed to splay both on her cheeks. "I don't want to stop. I want to fuck you. God," he growled, "I want to do that forever. I want to make love to you, even if you think making love is stupid. I want to taste you, Daisy. I want you to ride my tongue until you can't take it anymore, and then I want to hold you and fall asleep knowing you'll still be there when I wake up. I want you. So if you just ... if you want casual, if that's what you need ... "

He swallowed, and she understood the difference; if she wanted casual.

"I'll do it," he said, nodding once, but not at all convincingly. "Whatever you want. Just ... tell me. I'll give it to you. I told you. You can have anything."

Her lashes were working overtime, blinking to keep the tears filling her eyes at bay. Her lips wobbled, and she forced them together even though a sob was clawing at her throat.

"And if I don't want casual?" she asked.

There was a terrible pause.

Hunt's face paled. His hands slipped from her cheeks. "Then I'd be grateful just to know you. In any way you ..." His eyes guttered, and he cleared his throat. "In any capacity that you're comfortable with."